


recovery mission

by avocat



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Recovery, widowmaker gets nice things
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 10:40:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7099537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avocat/pseuds/avocat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Widowmaker finds herself at an Overwatch base she does not recognise with a person she does not really like. What happens next will warm your heart</p>
            </blockquote>





	recovery mission

Widowmaker stirs.

Her legs are tangled in a set of sheets she now knows as familiar. Stiff, white, but no longer sterile- they have gained the sickly smell of sweat since the corners were first tucked tight beneath the mattress. Not to say she was being neglected here, but the past few sleepless nights and restless dreams had made it inevitable.

She takes a moment to breathe before opening her eyes. The world is foggy, with the sting of fluorescent lights cutting through and making her cringe. 

“You’re awake,” the voice comes.

Widowmaker clicks her tongue in annoyance. She hadn’t been planning on it.

“Did you sleep well?” 

All she does now is sleep. But sleep well? She shifts, and thinks how the mess of linen wrapped around her ankles must make it evident.

“You should know the answer to that,” she says. “It seems you are here every time I wake up.”

The woman behind the voice drifts into view, and takes a seat at the bedside. The scrape the chair makes against the floor as she pulls it closer makes Widowmaker wince.

“I’m sorry,” Mercy says.

The genuine tone in her voice is a scrape of its own.

“If I made it obvious to you each time you annoyed me, you’d get sick of apologising quickly, I’m sure.” Widowmaker responds. 

It’s weak, and she wishes she could summon up more venom, but she’s tired.

 

It’s been- two days? Three? since she was brought in by Overwatch. On the first day, she had tried to escape. An unfamiliar environment, scrabbling with the sheets, bare feet on the cold floor, exit found- exit blocked- by Zarya, shoulders tense and stare unyielding. She had stopped in place just as Zarya called out Mercy’s name. 

“A good idea,” Zarya had said.

She was wilful, yes, but not stupid, and had not tried to escape again. Not yet, anyway.

 

“How are you feeling?” 

Mercy’s voice snaps her out of her reverie.

“The same as always. Should I be feeling different?”

Mercy breaks eye contact for a moment, as if she’s trying to remember a line.

“I suppose not. Maybe you will after today?”

Widowmaker stiffens. 

“Why would that be?”

In her memory, she feels cloth pressing against her temples, pulled taut across her eyes, and knuckles pressing into the back of her head. Sets of hands, sets of restraints, sets of suggestions, sets of injections. The visions serve as a reference point.

“I think it’s time we got you up and moving again. I can tell you’re getting sick of that bed,” Mercy says. She smiles in what Widowmaker assumes is an attempt at encouragement. “Do you think you’re ready for that?”

Widowmaker laughs bitterly.

“Aren’t you afraid I’ll hurt somebody? Or try to leave again?” 

Mercy shakes her head, and her ponytail bobs around comically. 

“It will only be you and me today. I’ve made sure of that.” She smiles again. 

Suspicious.

“Only you and me? What about your bouncer?”

It takes her a second. “Zarya?” Mercy asks.

Widowmaker nods her affirmative.

“She… Is here, yes.” She bites her lip. “But you won’t be seeing her. Unless… She’s needed, of course.”

She pauses, considering whether or not to continue.

“There are… A few others here too, but the situation is the same for them.”

“Others?” 

Widowmaker runs through the catalogue of potential ‘others’ in her mind.

“Ah, Pharah will also be joining us,” Mercy says. “And-”

She takes a breath suddenly. Widowmaker narrows her eyes.

“Don’t bother trying any funny business. The facility is locked down.” She continues.

Widowmaker knows something else has been left unsaid here. Rather than dwell on it, she puts her energy into leaving the bed.

 

Her body aches, each movement reminding her of the bruises she had been sleeping through. The pain in her shoulders throbs insistently as she rights herself, but she doesn’t let it show. She peels away the blankets and slowly drags her legs across the mattress. When the balls of her feet make contact with the floor, she shivers.

Mercy clears her throat. She is already standing, with a hand extended outwards.

Widowmaker suddenly finds it in herself to stand in a brisk and pointed movement. She ignores the regret that comes as a shooting pain down her spine. Mercy lowers her hand, and Widowmaker enjoys the disheartened expression that replaces it.

“So, what exactly are you going to do with me?” She asks dryly.

“I’m not going to- do anything with you,” Mercy says, defensive. “You haven’t been eating very well since you got here, so. I was thinking breakfast would be a good start.”

Widowmaker wonders whose fault exactly Mercy thinks that is. However, the thought of food overrules her bitterness- it’s true that her diet here has so far consisted of some slices of toast and a piece of fruit. Breakfast does sound good.

“It’s about time,” she says, barely masking the eagerness in her voice.

Mercy- smirks? Almost? Surely not. Whatever it is, it’s enough to make Widowmaker appreciate the fact her humiliation doesn’t show on her skin.

Mercy leads the way, and Widowmaker takes her first steps out of the room she had been confined to into the rest of the facility. The hallway they’re in houses a few rooms similar to the one they had just left- hospital like dorms used for medical treatment. The doors are all open, allowing Widowmaker to peer in and see matching beds, chairs, drips, and cabinets.

The next room on is lined with computer monitors, all buzzing gently. The desks are mostly clean, save for one in the corner which is littered with a crushed soda can and the wrapping to some sort of confection. A reminder that there’s still someone- or someones- present that Widowmaker is unaware of.

 

Finally they reach the mess hall, and Widowmaker is embarrassingly grateful for the chance to sit down again.

“I can trust you to wait here, I’m sure?” Mercy asks. Her tone makes it sound more like a statement.

“I don’t know”, Widowmaker replies. She rests her chin on one hand, tilting her head to the side a little as she makes eye contact with Mercy. “Is there anything to stop me from leaving?”

Mercy sighs and steeples her fingers.

“If you leave, I won’t get to ask you what you want on your pancakes. I could give you something you don’t want,” she says.

Widowmaker frowns. The Overwatch base she is in is completely alien. She doesn’t know where it is (or if anyone else knows where she is) or what she’s doing here. The way Mercy is talking to her- joking, smiling, this dry humor she’s sharing as if they’re old friends- is equally alien. She feels herself tense physically as she follows her instinct to close off, and put up her guard. But despite herself, she cannot ignore the quiet voice in the back of her head that’s telling her to lean closer, and follow her intrigue to its end.

Or, more importantly, the voice that’s telling her to say, “Do you have jam and cream?”

**Author's Note:**

> this is the first time ive written a fic in... maybe... five years... so please be gentle... there will be more chapters!! with more girls!! and more girls WITH girls!!!


End file.
